Other Paths Taken: Submergence
by Cadsuane
Summary: It's been almost thirty years since Ostagar and Alistair's Calling has come. Part 4 of 5 of the OPT series.
1. Chapter 1

Let us talk, you and I. When I began this story, I hadn't quite intended to take it this far. But shortly after developing the characters, this part of the story came to me. Both this part and the part that follows have been written for months. My inner muse demanded it be told no matter what, and so here it is. But I think it only fair that I give you, my readers, a proper warning, and so I shall borrow and paraphrase the words of Mister Stephen King. He wrote this almost at the end of his Dark Tower series (which owns my soul, by the way) and it's far better than anything I could write. My changes to his eloquent prose are in italics.

"And so, my dear Constant Reader, I tell you this: You can stop here. You can let your last memory be of seeing _Alistair, Breonna and Rhoswen, _together for the first time. You can be content in the knowledge that sooner or later _other friends _will also enter the picture. That's a pretty picture, isn't it? I think so. And pretty close to happily ever after, too. Close enough for government work.

"Should you go on, you will surely be disappointed, perhaps even heartbroken. I have one key left on my belt, but all it opens is that final door, the one marked _THE END_. What's behind won't improve your love-life, grow hair on your bald spot, or add five years to you natural span (not even five minutes). There is no such thing as a happy ending. I never met a single one equal 'Once upon a time.'

"Endings are heartless.

"Ending is just another word for goodbye."

* * *

You're still with me. I'm sorry. Not sorry for writing this, for it is a tale that must be told, but sorry for the end that it has to be. I will not tell you to enjoy, as I have with everything else, for this is not something one should find joy in. I hope you appreciate it and accept it for what it is.

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Twenty-nine years.

They had been a _good_ twenty-nine years, Alistair reflected, better than he could ever have imagined in his wildest dreams. His country was peaceful and prosperous, his people flourishing. He had friends, men and women who stood by him with support and affection. And he had his family—Rhoswen, his beautiful, golden daughter, grown into a woman now, married to a man who loved her fiercely, and his grandson, Duncan, a smiling, laughing three year old, with an unruly mop of sandy blond hair and his father's bright, blue eyes.

He had his Breonna—his queen, his wife, his heart. She was the fulfillment of every sappy cliché the bards sang of. Before her, he hadn't known what it meant to really love someone. And now? Now, he loved her so much it _hurt_. A life without her was inconceivable and he silently sent a prayer of thanks to the Maker for allowing him to find her.

So, all in all, they had been an _excellent_ twenty-nine years.

He wanted more.

A long time ago, thirty years had seemed like forever. It had seemed like such an impossibly distant stretch of time. That time was gone now. Every moment of those years was behind him now, filled with memories and love—thoughts that were slowly being submerged by the call in his head.

Alistair rubbed his forehead wearily, not really seeing the papers spread on the desk before him. He hated the call that was always with him now. It buzzed and rasped beneath his skin and in his head until he wanted to tear it out with his hands—anything to make to stop, to make it be quiet. It was there always, serving as a reminder that his tomorrows were rapidly running short, that time was slipping through his hands, seeming to speed up like the last grains of sand through an hourglass.

He _hated_ the call. He hated it because not only did it herald his departure from everything he loved, it also made it hard to think. It crept into his mind, obscuring memories, driving away all thoughts except the one that demanded he find the source and put an end to it. And it made him short-tempered, so easy to anger that not lashing out required him to keep tight control. The taint was a poison, not only of the body, but of the mind, slowly driving him to madness.

With a great effort of will, Alistair pulled his mind back into focus. Dwelling on those thoughts didn't help. He looked back down at his papers, gathering them in his hands. Everything was ready. He'd been in communication with King Bhelen for months, and the dwarven monarch knew to expect Alistair at any time. All of his other personal affairs had been arranged so that the transition after his death would be seamless.

Replacing the papers in his desk, he pushed his chair back and rose. The moment he had been dreading for months was here and he couldn't avoid it any longer. He walked the dim hallways back to the royal suite quietly, trying to think of the best way to break the news.

Passing by a mirror hung on a wall he caught a glimpse of his reflection and paused. The man in the mirror bore only a passing resemblance to the one who had first taken up residence within these stone walls.

The last four or five years had aged him. His hair was mostly gray now, only a few strands of the gold peeking through in strong light. His face was lined, deep grooves beside his nose and mouth, his brow holding furrows even when relaxed. There were dark circles beneath the hazel eyes framed with crow's feet. He knew he looked older than his fifty years, and knew that it was because the taint within him was finally taking its toll, claiming his features before it finally claimed his life.

But the weathered map of his face also held the results of the good times. The lines around his mouth and eyes were more from smiling and laughing than worry and stress. The taint hadn't taken the crooked grin or the teasing spark in his eyes. It hadn't taken his ability to laugh and love.

Not yet, anyway.

The sitting room was lit by a single lamp when he entered. Breonna was seated on a sofa, legs curled under her as she watched the small fire burn in the hearth.

"When were you going to tell me?"

He started slightly and then sighed. He crossed the room and sat beside her, easing himself down and catching her hand in his.

"Right now, actually," he said. "You knew?"

"Of course, I knew." She turned towards him, lifting her other hand to run through his hair. "Oh, Alistair, how could I not know? After all these years of sleeping beside you, do you think I wouldn't notice when your sleep became restless and disturbed? Or not notice when you become quiet and withdrawn? Did you expect the sudden flurry of activity—letters back and forth, sparring in heavier armor than you've worn in years—to go unnoticed? Do you think I didn't care when you looked distant and worried, and that even when you told me everything's all right, your smile was strained? I just wish you had told me sooner."

He stroked his thumb over her hand. "I didn't know how. I still don't."

Her hand squeezed his. "Then don't. You don't need to say it." A slight pause. "How long?"

"I don't know. Two weeks, maybe three. It's…getting harder to ignore, but I still have some time."

"I see…." He could hear the sorrow in her voice, knew she had hoped for more time, and it was killing him to hurt her like this.

Silence stretched between them. "I don't want to tell Rhos," he finally said. "I just want to spend what time I have left with all of you without this hanging over everyone's heads. You'll…you'll have to explain to them after I leave."

"I will."

She leaned against him, laying her head on his shoulder. Sliding his arm around her, he rested his head on hers, and there they sat, long into the evening.

* * *

It was heartbreaking to watch him.

Ever since the night Alistair had told her what being a Warden meant, part of Breonna had been preparing for this. But nothing she had ever envisioned had prepared her for the reality of it.

He said he wanted to spend the rest of his time with his family, enjoy them, and she made sure that's what he got. Every time an advisor or noble came, she either handled the matter herself or put them off. She didn't care if the business of running the country came to a halt. This was Alistair's time and the rest of them could go hang if they didn't like it.

In these final weeks, he showered his family with attention. Always an affectionate man, it was the little differences that struck her. The way he tucked Duncan in at night or the way he treated Rhoswen as if she were his little girl again and not a woman grown. The way he would find Breonna at odd times and places just to simply give her a kiss and a hug.

The way he managed to always touch part of her whenever they were together and how, at night, he held her as if he were afraid to let her go.

It made her heart ache to know that he was doing this to give _them_ memories. He was leaving them with these last, best parts of himself to take his place when he was gone. And as much as that realization hurt, it wasn't what caused her the most pain.

Alistair was losing himself.

She hadn't noticed the first sign right away, until a chance comment from Duncan called her attention to it.

They had been in Rhoswen's rooms, just talking quietly when Duncan asked, "Grandpa, what are you looking at?"

Alistair started, gaze focusing on his grandson. He gave a faltering smile, shook his head and wiped his mouth, and then smiled widely at the boy. "Nothing, Duncan, I was just thinking. Come here. Let me read you a story."

After that, it had been so easy to see that Breonna kicked herself for missing it. Alistair would grow quiet, contemplative, eyes staring into the middle distance. The haunted look in them made her shiver. When he got that look, it was obvious that he wasn't completely present with them—that his mind had drifted to some dark corner where they couldn't follow.

The second sign was his temper. Alistair had never been a man easily given to sharp and biting comments, usually forgiving and understanding no matter the situation. But now she saw the effort it took for him to rein in his anger, to not berate someone for an honest mistake. And she knew it upset him. When he couldn't quite control it, he was always visibly contrite and apologetic.

The last sign was one she was incapable of missing. As his taint progressed, he became more desperate to have her physically. The wild passions of their youth had cooled, becoming something more like banked coals ready to spring to life when they wanted rather than the raging torrent it had once been.

She delighted in the passion and despaired at it all at the same time. The same loss of control she saw in his ability to focus or control his temper was present in their lovemaking. He gave her pleasure, but there was something wild in his eyes now, his hands rougher on her body than they had been in years.

It wasn't intentional. And it got worse as the days passed.

In the end, he lasted a month, a stretch of time that was hard won. It ended the night he woke, shouting wildly and falling from their bed, desperately caught up in the throes of his nightmare. Breonna slid from the bed to kneel next to him, catching his shaking body against hers and rocking him.

"I can't anymore, Bre," he whispered hoarsely as he clung to her. "I-I can't. I tried, I tried so hard, but I can't anymore."

"Shhh, it's all right. I know."

"Everything's all ready set. One more day to…to say goodbye and then I need to go."

She just nodded, not trusting herself to speak. He had this planned out, planned to go off to Orzammar alone, and there was no way she was going to let that happen. A day was all she needed to make sure her own plans were in motion.

* * *

Two mornings later, the courtyard was abuzz with activity as the royal guard mounted up and the rest of the supplies were readied. Breonna watched from a window as wagons were loaded and their carriage readied. Alistair might be going to die, but there still basic necessities that he and his men would need. She nodded to herself in satisfaction as a few extra trunks were brought out. It was time.

She turned back to face Rhoswen, her daughter's face pale in the morning light. Yesterday, she had taken Rhoswen and Roland, Rhoswen's husband, aside and explained exactly what was going to happen. Her daughter had been horrified, objecting at first when Breonna made it clear that they were not to let Alistair know that they knew. But duty and respect had eventually stilled her objections, and she accepted the burden her mother placed on her.

She picked up the heavy, fur-lined cloak up from across the desk and put it on. Walking forward, she embraced her daughter. "You know what to do?"

"Yes, Mother.

"Good. If you need anything, ask your Uncle Fergus. I love you, Rhos."

"I love you, too, Mum. Tell Fath—tell Daddy I love him, okay?"

Breonna wiped the tears from her daughter's cheeks. She was so young for this—younger than Breonna herself had been when she married Alistair. "He knows, baby, but I'll tell him. And he loves you. I'll see you when we get back."

Rhoswen nodded, reaching out to adjust her mother's cloak before stepping back. Breonna quickly made her way through the halls, exiting the palace into the bitingly cold winter air and coming down the steps. Alistair was questioning one of the guards, asking about the inclusion of the latest trunks. When she came forward and touched his arm, he fell silent, looking at her with appraising eyes and frowning.

Drawing her off to the side, he asked quietly, "What are you doing?"

"I'm coming with you."

"Bre…." He was torn, his love for her warring with anxiety on his face. She knew he didn't want her to see him at the end, wanted her to remember him they way he was now.

"I am not letting you go alone, Alistair," she said sharply. "I may not be able to go with you until the very end, but I will be there, by your side, for _every_ second possible."

He just nodded, his gloved hand cupping her cheek and she leaned into the touch. Instructions were given to finish loading the wagons, and then he helped her into the carriage. When they were settled, and everything was loaded, the procession headed out.

"Rhos knows," she said finally after a long silence.

"I thought you might have told her," he murmured.

"I only told her yesterday. She's too much like you. She can't lie to those she loves." Alistair chuckled at that.

"How are you going to…explain? I was going to have Bhelen give my guard a story, but with you here…. How are you going to explain why I don't come back, Bre?"

"You are coming back."

He frowned, his brows drawing together. "Bre, you know I'm not. What—"

Holding up a hand, she stopped him. "You _are_. You're not the only one who's been in contact with King Bhelen." His eyes widened. "I've also talked to the Legion of the Dead and the Circle Tower. We're not leaving you in the Deep Roads, Alistair. The Legion will follow you and bring you back."

"I see." He was quiet for a moment. "And how will you explain my death?"

"Heart attack," she said shortly. "That's what the mage is for. They can heal wounds even on…even on a…." She swallowed back the bile in her throat. "They can heal wounds. We're bringing you back home, Alistair."

Another long moment of silence passed before she heard him rasp, "Thank you."

"You're welcome." And then with a wail, she buried herself against his chest and sobbed.

* * *

I did want to say there is a new piece of artwork for Chapter 7 of OPT: Emergence by SilentDreamer linked on my profile. It wasn't ready when I published last week, and though I updated that chapter, I wanted to make sure that I did let everyone know. I place this note here because it didn't belong with what I was saying up top.


	2. Chapter 2

I did want to note, before you read this chapter, that I envision the Calling to sort of drive Wardens a little mad, especially when they delay it like Alistair does. I don't want you to think he's insane or anything, because he's not, but this whole ordeal has definitely stripped him of control and leaves him far more open to his emotions and more primal instincts.

And also...you people like pain! What the hell is up with this? My readers like doubled on this part of the story. So you won't read about Alistair having a happy, loving home life, but you _will_ read about him going to die in the Deep Roads alone. Not that I'm not grateful. I am. Very much so. Just know that I think you're all terrible people. ^_^ And I love you for it!

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Their journey was carefully planned, ensuring that they made the best time possible while still having a secure, safe place to spend each night. Breonna was unsure if they would have to detour slightly to the Circle Tower, but the mage who was to accompany them, Aden, met them just past West Hills.

They had already gone over how they would have to spend at least two days in talks with Bhelen to ensure their story would be accepted. The king dropping dead of a heart attack scant seconds after arriving would be suspicious.

Alistair received a welcome surprise when he was greeted at the gates of Orzammar by Anora and Nathaniel. The old friends embraced, and Breonna was very glad that she had asked Anora to be there to say goodbye. It was obvious that Alistair took some solace in the fact that the person he had known longest would be there with him until the end.

King Bhelen proved to be an able and efficient host, well-versed in the needs of Wardens about to depart for their Calling. His agents carefully spread rumors so that if any asked, it would appear as though the monarchs had indeed spent their days negotiating. In truth, Breonna and Alistair spent most of their time together, alone in their room, spending every moment they could with each other.

They were both distracted during the last dinner in Orzammar, barely tasting what little food they ate. The specter of the coming morning hung over them, and they were mainly silent, answering questions with short, single word answers. Beneath the table, their hands were clenched together in a desperate grip. When they excused themselves early, Bhelen merely nodded and wished them goodnight. Anora and Nathaniel watched them gravely, the knowledge that they, too, would be in the same position soon showing heavily in their expressions.

The walk to their quarters increased in speed the closer they got. By the time the arrived they were running. Alistair jerked the door open and all but shoved her inside. As soon as the door closed behind them, he was on her. His mouth found hers in a hard, brutal kiss and she welcomed it, angling her head, allowing his tongue to thrust deeper into her mouth. She pressed back, lips, tongue and teeth encouraging him.

His hands went to the front of her dress, and with a quick, savage motion, he tore it apart. She shivered as he shoved it down over her shoulders, trapping her arms. Pressing her against the doors, his hands roamed over her, hard and possessive, claiming her. The weeks of restraint, of trying to keep himself together, had taken their toll and he was coming undone. There was nothing gentle about this. It was all lust and despair.

Breonna struggled to free her arms, but it was hard to concentrate against the sensations of his hands and mouth on her. Finally pulling her arms from the dress, Breonna shoved her it off her hips and met Alistair's frantic movements. Her hands fisted into his hair, pulling his head down to her breasts. He complied willingly, his hot mouth finding her hard nipples, pulling them between his lips. She cried out, arching against the door as his teeth scraped the sensitive flesh.

He pulled back, panting, visibly struggling to retain a little hold over himself. "Bed," he ground out, tugging her away from the wall. "Now."

Before laying her down, he stripped the tattered remnants of her gown from her, sliding her smallclothes down of her hips as she kicked her shoes off. She would have returned the favor, but he stopped her, grabbing her wrists and shaking his head. With harsh, jerky motions, he removed his own clothes.

Once that was done, he pulled her back to him and laid them both down upon the bed. His hands and mouth returned to her, scraping and nipping across her flesh, and her small cries only urged him on. He parted her thighs with a knee and slipped between them. She was wet and ready for him, but she still gasped when he slid into her with no further delay.

She could feel him lose a little more control with every movement. Her arms and hips were sore where he had bruised her in his punishing grip. Her skin stung where his mouth and teeth had left marks across her body. Even now, his hips slammed into hers, the pleasure-pain mixing in a new and unfamiliar way. He struggled, trying to pull back from the madness that the corruption in his blood was driving him toward.

"Sorry," he grunted as he filled her again. "Don't want…hurt you…"

Breonna tightened her grip, her own teeth nipping at his shoulder. "I don't care. Let go! Leave me _something_!" she gasped. He shook his head, still thrusting into her. This time Breonna bit him, almost hard enough to draw blood.

Alistair snarled, throwing his head back, his eyes closing. Cords stood out in his neck as he growled and when his eyes reopened, she shivered at the naked hunger in them. He shifted slightly, adjusting his angle so he could reach deeper. She felt him gather himself, and he slowed, entering and withdrawing from her in longer, fuller strokes.

For a moment, she wondered if her demand for his loss on control has made him find it again. But no, his eyes were still on her, need burning bright in their depths. He watched her, his gaze predatory and intense. Shifting his weight to one arm, the fingers of his free hand trailed down her belly to where their bodies joined.

He stroked her gently, actions at odds with his countenance, carefully avoiding the bundle of nerves. Moving against him, she tried to force the contact, but he drew back. "Not yet…not yet…." His breathing was ragged, coming in quick, harsh rasps. The sweat poured off of him, off both of them, as he almost grimly sought to extend this act, their final night together.

She writhed beneath him, panting, begging for him. The tension was unbearable and if it didn't break she would go mad. "Alistair," she begged. "Alistair, _please_!"

Then he touched her, his thumb moving in quick, precise strokes. Breonna shattered, coming with a scream, her mind and vision blanked out, consumed entirely with the thought and feel of Alistair against and within her. Her entire body shuddered, arching into him, trying to draw him even further inside her.

Above her, Alistair lasted only a few moments longer. The sound he made as he came deep within her was indescribable, something raw and animalistic. Breonna screamed again as the last of his restraint unraveled, his teeth sinking into the flesh of her breast. She felt the tear of her skin as his teeth broke through. It hurt and burned, and instead of trying to push him away, she drew him closer, welcoming the pain.

One final thrust, and aside from his heaving chest, he was still. He removed his mouth from her breast, but kept his head against her chest. With unsteady arms, he lowered himself to lie next to her. As he lay there, his eyes seemed to clear, coming back down from need he had been utterly consumed by minutes ago.

His eyes focused on the wound he had made and the blood that seeped from it. One of his hands reached out, brushing against it. He recoiled, fingertips stained red, and then pulled her into his arms.

"I'm sorry, Bre! Oh, Maker, I'm sorry! I never wanted to hurt you. Never that! I'm sorry…."

She shushed him with gentle fingers on his lips. He kissed them and then his breath huffed out in a sob. A tear trailed down his cheek and a strangled cry escaped his throat.

It occurred to her that in all their years together, she had only seen Alistair cry twice. The first had been when she had trouble with her pregnancy. When she had awoken, he had sobbed tears of relief. The second time had been the first time he held Duncan—tears of joy for the precious gift he cradled in his arms.

He wept now. But these were tears of grief, of pain, of heartache and loss. He wept and Breonna held him, wishing she could offer some comfort, _any_ comfort, but there was none in her to give. Now, as they came to the end, he broke and there was _nothing_ she could do to keep him together or make him whole. Tears formed in her own eyes and she tried to hold them back, tried to be strong for him. They fell anyway, heedless of her wants.

They clung to each other, already feeling the parting that was still yet to come. "I don't _want this_!" Alistair cried against her throat. "I don't want to _leave you_! I want more time _for us_! I want—!" He stopped, overcome, and his form quaked against her own shaking one.

How long it took for them to be still once more, Breonna didn't know. She knew only that they lay together in the middle of the bed, a tangle of limbs and clutching hands. Their skin was tacky from dried sweat, their passion and her blood. She rocked him slightly, as mother might do to a child who has woken from a bad dream. She rocked him and murmured nonsensical words until she felt the tension in him ease. His breathing slowed, deepened, and Breonna prayed that if there was a Maker, He would make her king's final night with her free of the nightmares that plagued him.

Once she was sure he was asleep, she traced the features of his face lightly. Her fingertips danced across his brow, the aristocratic lines of his nose and cheekbones, the strength of his jaw—soft strokes across the thin skin of his eyelids and the lower lip that yet held the tiniest trace of a pout. She tried to commit every feature, every line, every inch of him to memory.

In the years to come, her memories would have to sustain her.

* * *

He would have to wake her soon.

The room was quiet. If there were sounds in the palace outside, they did not penetrate the thick doors. Here, in the dark and silence, he could almost forget where they were, why they were here.

His sleep had been dreamless. For the first time in months, no nightmares had awoken him during the night. Even the call seemed more distant, muted. It had even been silenced for brief moments, its perversion eclipsed, if only briefly, by something stronger. But it was returning now—slowly, but gathering strength. He had tried for so hard and so long, but there was no more fight in him, not for this.

With a squeeze of Breonna's shoulder, he said gently, "Bre, we have to get up."

Her eyes opened so quickly, he knew she hadn't been sleeping. He could see the fear in them, and while he wished he could have, he couldn't ease it. Alistair leaned over and kissed her softly. "I'll draw us a bath."

He pulled his legs over the side of the bed, groaning as aching muscles and joints protested. He was getting too old for this. Not that that would be a problem for much longer.

A grim smile at the gallows humor touched his mouth. _Good, old Alistair_, he thought, _always joking around_. He was going to have to stop doing that if he wanted people to take him seriously.

He had never appreciated dwarven ingenuity more than at the moment he turned the taps in the stone tub and hot water rushed to fill it. The thought of servants having to intrude on their intimacy to come and bring them bath water was repellant to him. While the water ran, he lit a few lamps. When the tub was nearly full, he shut the taps off and returned to the bed.

Breonna came to him when he held out a hand. In the brighter light, he could see what he had done to her and he felt a wave of revulsion sweep through him. Bruises mottled her skin everywhere, love bites standing out in sharp relief against her pale skin. The wound on her breast was the worst, deep purple bruises surrounding the clearly visible marks from his teeth.

"Maker's blood, Bre! What did I do? I'm a monster!"

She glanced down at her body and frowned. She shook her head. "No, you're not."

"How can you say that? Look at what I _did_ to you!"

Her hands came up to cup his face. "If I had asked you to stop," she said quietly, "you would have."

Her absolute faith in him still shocked him at times, and now was no exception. "We'll have to get Aden to heal you."

"No."

"What do you mean 'no?' Bre, if we don't, it'll scar."

"I want it to."

"You…want it to?" She nodded. "In the Maker's name, _why_?"

Her answering smile was both sweet and sad. "I asked you to leave me with something. You did."

"That's not…. I don't want…." He couldn't find the words to tell her this wasn't what he wanted to leave her. That he wanted her memories of their last moments together to be what had been best between them, not the result of a final, desperate act.

It was an explanation he didn't need to give. Her expression suddenly twisted and broke. With a low cry, she pressed herself against his chest. He held her gently, letting her cry. There were no tears left in him to share with her.

When she had calmed, he lifted her into his arms and carried her towards the tub. He stepped in, settling her before him, between his legs. Grabbing a soft washcloth and soap, he concentrated on washing her, removing all traces of last night from her skin. His lips followed the cloth, dropping kisses across her shoulders and neck, murmuring apologies. Her head dropped back against his shoulder and he kissed her neck, her jaw, the spot just behind her ear. When she turned her head slightly, he captured her mouth in a slow, searching kiss, still running the cloth along her body.

No inch of her was spared. With gentle motions, he bathed her, starting from crown of her head and her long hair and moving down—from her shoulders to fingertips, breasts to hips, thighs to her delicately tapered ankles. He saved the soft mound of her sex for the very last, not even bothering with the cloth. Holding around the waist with his other arm, he slipped his fingers into her. She was soft and scorching hot. As his fingers stroked gently, she arched against him, her head pressing into his shoulder as she let out a soft gasp.

He was gentle as he gave her a different last memory, as he replaced lust and need and brutality with desire and love and tenderness. Her hands scrabbled along the bottom of the tub before they grabbed his hips. Once, he would have drawn this out, bringing her to the edge and holding her there, delighting in her sounds and motions as he stoked the desire in her, but not now. She came within minutes—not with a scream or a cry, but with a low, gasping moan of his name against his throat. Her body quivered against him, pressing into his chest and hand.

They lay there, Alistair idly stroking her curves. After a few minutes, Breonna loosened her grip and her hands searched under the water, emerging with the forgotten washcloth. She moved away from him, turning, heedless of the water that sloshed over the edge of the tub. Kneeling, she settled herself over his thighs and began washing him with the same care he had shown her.

When she was done, she dropped the cloth and soap to the floor and reached under the water to grasp his shaft. It didn't take much, a few well-placed strokes along his length and he has ready for her, hard and aching. She rose up, positioning him at the head of her entrance and lowered herself with a soft sigh.

He groaned quietly as he slid into her effortlessly, hands resting lightly on her hips. Her hands closed over his as she began to move. This, _this_ was always good. It was the sense of acceptance, of completion. It was something more than pleasure. Together, when they were one, it was home and it was _right_.

Alistair watched Breonna through hooded eyes as she rode him, as she moved her hips in those motions that she knew pleased him best. It was strangely hypnotic—the stillness of the room, the only sounds the water splashing in the tub and their quiet gasps, Breonna rising over him, skin glistening and hair hanging down in damp strands, their bodies touching and sliding over one another.

For a minute, time stopped, everything in the world narrowed down to this one, perfect moment. Breonna moved slightly faster, bearing down with a little more pressure. And when he felt her squeeze just a bit more, Alistair came, releasing inside the woman he loved for the final time.

"Bre…."

She rested her cheek against his, her arms around his shoulders and neck. Still within her, he settled against the edge of the tub, holding her, keeping them together for a little while longer. Eventually, the water cooled and with great reluctance, he said, "We need to go."

With a small nod, she drew back, moving off him to stand and step out of the bath. Picking up one towel for herself, she handed another to him and he stepped out. He wrapped it around himself and reached over to remove her towel from her hands before she could do the same. She looked at him questioningly before understanding dawned in her eyes as he began running the soft cloth over her body.

He dried her body carefully, being extra careful over the areas he knew would be sore. When he was done, he stood quietly and allowed her to do the same for him.

They didn't speak. What was passing between them now was too close, too intimate for even words. In silence, they dried each other. In silence, he helped her dress—in the gown he loved the most on her, simple and the darkest shade of green—doing up the laces and smoothing the fabric across her hips. In silence, she helped him into his armor, fastening buckles and ties as she had learned to do years ago.

When they were done, he fastened his sword and shield into place and shouldered his small pack into place. He had always said he would make the darkspawn earn their prize and he meant it. He knew he wouldn't survive this, but he intended to take as many of them with him as he could. His skills weren't quite what they once were—he had slowed with age and it had been too many years since he fought in real combat. But he was still strong, his templar skills remained in perfect form, and he was sure as soon as battle began, his body would remember all the steps.

His pack held a few days worth of rations and poultices and potions. They were designed to mask pain rather than grant true healing—stop gap measures to keep him going a little while longer when he survived a fight, but was wounded.

One last look around to make sure he had forgotten nothing, and he held his arm out to Breonna. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, face pale, but calm. Her eyes were too bright, shimmering with a veil of moisture, but he knew her well enough to know that's all it would be. She was drawing her role around her, playing the part of the perfectly composed queen.

He was glad he knew it wasn't an act.

The streets of Orzammar were quiet and mostly empty, an occasional dwarf here or there hurrying to some destination. It struck Alistair as they walked that he and Breonna had never simply traveled through a city without an escort of guards. It had been so normal to simply have armed guards following them everywhere that being on their own now was decidedly odd.

Those thoughts flew from his head as the paving stones beneath their feet turned to rougher, barely worked stone. He could see the entrance to the Deep Roads ahead, a small cluster of people before it. Even through his armor, he felt Breonna tense beside him and he moved his right hand over to lie across hers.

Waiting for them was King Bhelen, the guards who always stood sentinel before the entrance to the Deep Roads and another dwarf who was in the Legion of the Dead, judging by the tattoos on his face. Bhelen nodded to them as they slowly drew up to the group. He gestured towards the Legion member. "Everything's been arranged. The Legion is out in the tunnels, along with your mage. They'll follow a few hours behind you and attempt to, ah, _recover_ what they can."

Alistair nodded. "Thank you, your Majesty. If you don't mind, I'd like a few moments before I go."

Bhelen gave a slight bow. "Of course. Atrasta nal tunsha, Warden."

Once the dwarves had moved back a respectful distance, Alistair turned to Breonna. He reached up to cup her cheek. "I love you, Bre. You are _everything_ I could have ever hoped for and my life wouldn't have been worth living without you." With his thumb, he wiped at the tears that had started to run down her face. He wouldn't tell her not to cry, couldn't tell her. She would cry enough for the both of them.

She wrapped her arms around him. "I love you," she whispered against his ear. "I love you, love you, love you. I will always love you. Always. I love you, Alistair." The words were repeated over and over again as Alistair held her tightly. He blinked, feeling the slight burn in his own eyes and tried to swallow past the tightness in his throat.

Finally, he let out a shuddering breath and gently disengaged her arms from around him. He kissed her once more, tasting her tears on her lips, and stepped back. The guards came over at his nod and unlocked the great doors, easing them open. He straightened his shoulders, settling his armor and trying to prepare himself. Once the doors were opened, he stepped through, walking into the blackness.

He looked back once as the doors began the close, the rectangle of light slowly narrowing. Breonna stood perfectly framed in that window of light, her face the last thing he saw before the doors closed, shutting him in the dark.


	3. Chapter 3

So, here ends Submergence. There isn't much to say, except perhaps to apologize again and thank you guys for reading this far. There is one more short part to follow this, a single chapter epilogue, and I'll explain when I publish that why I'm not including it in this part.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

The knock on her door came in the evening, three days later.

Breonna opened the door to find Aden waiting outside. He looked tired, his robes rumpled and dirty. "Your Majesty," he said, bowing slightly. "We've returned."

"Were you successful?"

"We were."

She said nothing, looking past him into the empty hallway. Part of her noted absently that the hall shouldn't be that empty. It was too early. There should have been people going about their business.

She shifted her gaze back to Aden. "I want to see him."

Aden nodded. "Follow me."

He led her through quiet corridors, the few people they passed quietly ducking into side halls or empty rooms. It took no more than a minute to reach a closed door, and Aden paused briefly before opening it and allowing her to enter. She stepped into the room. It was dimly lit, but the light was more than strong enough to see the low stone bier, the still figure lying upon it.

"My magic was enough to heal the wounds." Aden's voice behind her was quiet, respectful. "As long as I cast the spell every other day or so, he will remain uncorrupted on the trip back to Denerim."

"Thank you, Aden," she answered softly. "Now, if you would, please leave us." She heard the whisper of his robes as he bowed and left the room, the quiet click of the door closing, his footfalls retreating down the hall. She glanced around the room, seeing chairs lined against the wall. Picking one up, she carried it over to the bier and set it down. Smoothing her skirts and seating herself carefully, she finally looked at the figure.

If it had been anyone but Alistair, she might have said they looked like they were at peace. But Breonna had seen Alistair at peace—napping with their daughter asleep on his chest, curled beside her in bed at night, catching her eye during a long, boring meeting and winking at her. This was not peace—merely an absence of all emotion and feeling.

And again, had it been anyone other than Alistair, she might have thought they were sleeping, that the person before her had been captured between one breath and the next. But Alistair had never been this _still_, not even in sleep. It didn't _look_ right.

She reached out, ran a hand through his hair and down his cheek. He was cool, the flesh still firm. Breonna supposed whatever spell Aden used to keep decay from touching the body must also make it feel not quite so corpse-like.

With a low cry, she turned away. Looking at the person you love shouldn't be this difficult. Deliberately looking around the room to give her time to compose herself, her eyes fell on the armor stand and small table along the wall that held Alistair's belongings. She rose on unsteady legs and walked over to it.

Someone must have attended to the armor after it was removed from him. There were scratches and dents on it, but it was clean, the light coating of oil shimmering in the low light. She turned her attention to the sword, shield and pack upon the table. Whoever had been attending to the armor hadn't gotten to the weapons yet. The shield had been hastily wiped down, but she could see the streaks of dirt and blood on it. Easing his sword from the scabbard a bit, she could see more dried blood crusted on the hilt and under the guard. She frowned. Alistair would never sheath a dirty blade. He always made sure to clean….

_Stupid, stupid little fool_, she thought as she hurriedly set the blade back down. Alistair _hadn't_ sheathed his sword. He had gone down fighting and the Legion had done it for him when they found him. She held a hand over her mouth, willing herself not to be sick. _I hope it was quick, my love_, she thought. _Please, Maker, let it have been quick_.

She reached for the pack to check the contents. It was mostly empty, a handful of rations and a single poultice being the only remnants of his supplies. Drawing her hand from the pack, she brushed some sort of cloth and looked back in. There was a small, cloth-wrapped bundle inside and she removed it carefully. Gently unwrapping it, she saw a single, dried white rose inside. It had been battered in its trip, petals falling off to land on top of the table and on his gear.

_Oh, my Alistair. I hope I loved you half as much as you loved me._

Collecting the petals, she carefully placed them back in the cloth and rewrapped the flower. Carrying the small bundle with her, she returned to Alistair's side and took her seat once more. She lifted one of the hands folded over his stomach, threading her fingers through his. Lifting his hand to her lips, she pressed a gentle kiss to his knuckles. She started to cry again. She couldn't help it, couldn't stop herself. Turning her head, she pressed the back of his hand to her cheek.

"I miss you so much, already." Her voice was a ragged whisper in the dim room. "I don't know how I'm going to do this, Alistair. I don't think I'm strong enough to do this, not on my own. I _need_ you."

Unlike all the other times she had reached out to him, this time there was no answer. No strong arms pulling her close, no words of comfort, no easy smile and laugh to make her feel better. There was only silence and emptiness. Alistair had gone, left her alone, and had taken her heart with him.

* * *

News had traveled ahead of them and Denerim was in mourning when the royal entourage returned to the city. Black flags were draped on the gates and the walls. In the city itself, more flags hung on doors and from windows. As the procession passed, citizens lined the streets, watching with sad eyes as the body of their king passed by. The crowds, already quiet, fell silent as he passed, heads bowed out of respect and grief.

Breonna watched from inside the carriage as they headed towards the palace. Part of her was gladdened by what she saw, the obvious outpouring of respect the people had for their king. Alistair would have called it silly and squirmed slightly at the fuss. He'd never quite grown accustomed to it—all the attention focused on just one man. It always struck him as wasteful and more than a little pompous.

Breonna maintained her composure while Alistair's body was reverently unloaded and laid out in state. She managed to keep it together until Fergus, who had come down from Highever, took over for her. Then as Rhoswen helped her back to her rooms and shut the door, she collapsed into her daughter's arms, sobbing.

* * *

Three days later, the nobility of Ferelden attended the funeral of King Alistair. The grand cleric delivered the eulogy and those close to Alistair spoke warm words in his honor. Queen Breonna took the torch from her daughter and touched it to Alistair's pyre, reciting a single canticle as she did so.

"Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls.  
From these emerald waters doth life begin anew.  
Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you.  
In my arms lies Eternity."


End file.
